


if we had more time (i wish you could've been my valentine)

by wind girl (amixxhan)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Now with a happy ending!, character death man, countdown clocks, dont just dont, enjolras gets shot during a protest, i was in a really bad mood i am very sorry, oh lookie its valentines let me write something angsty, questionable medical knowledge bc the author sucks at bio, second person pov again yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amixxhan/pseuds/wind%20girl
Summary: The first thing you register is pain.In which Enjolras is dying and Grantaire comforts him.





	1. bad end

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [如果我们有更多时间（我希望你能成为我的男朋友）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9904391) by [kimerufuji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimerufuji/pseuds/kimerufuji)



The first thing you register is pain.

Your muscles clench and relax around a _hole_ made by a bullet, straight through your body— possibly near your liver, but you don’t even know exactly where. Your blood starts to escape, fast— even faster than Courf’s new car, and even faster than you expect. It was supposed to be a peaceful protest, how all love is equal— it was Valentine’s— it seemed appropriate.

And he was shot merely five seconds ago.

Combeferre screams— your knees buckle and you’re half-sure that the _Amis l’ABC_ are handling the situation as best they can. Better you getting shot than any of them, you muse (you wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ forgive yourself if one of them dies). You’re bleeding fast and you know it— and you hope that no one else gets injured— let alone _murdered_ (you remind yourself that you’re _dying_ and not yet murdered, but it’s a stretch).

Everything starts getting blurry and hazy, the world spins (much like your head actually, it pounds and pulses as well) everything melds and blurs together like a demented kaleidoscope, and you’re half-sure you’ve lost a pint or two of blood at this point, there’s a puddle of crimson near your feet, and you try to stem the bleeding with your hand (it doesn’t help). Your hands are getting coated with the sticky substance, but— at this point you couldn’t even care. He’s wearing a white shirt, which slowly becomes red as blood spilled from the wound. Amidst all the ruckus, the screaming— familiar sapphire blue eyes are in front of you suddenly.

“’Taire? I- I—“you struggle to speak, your throat raspy, your voice broken. He shushes you down and helps you lie down.

“I’m here— I’m here,” he tucks a stray strand of blonde hair behind your ear, he holds you as you bleed out (it’s a demented thought, but you have to be realistic). “You’re going to be fine ‘Pollo, don’t worry.”

(Realistically speaking, you’re not going to be _fine_ , but you hope that you’ll be)

“Courf’s calling an ambulance, and ‘Ferre just needed to get his first-aid kit from the van— hang tight there, you’re going to _live_ ‘Pollo,” Grantaire pleads, hands on yours, you’re lying in his lap now (his shirt’s drenched in your blood as well, he doesn’t seem to mind).

“R—“ he flinches at the nickname (you never call him that, only ‘Taire or asshat or some other random insult, you regret each and every one of them), “please— don’t— don’t leave me R.” You cough out, “I’m sorry— I’m so sorry R.”

“I’m not going to ‘Pollo, don’t worry.” R looks at you like there’s something else he wants to say but he can’t— his hands tremble (you can feel it, everything seems a thousand times more heightened when you’re dying) and there’s tears in the corners of those blue eyes (they’re beautiful, and he hasn’t noticed them much and well, there’s another fucking regret). “I— we _can’t_ lose you ‘Pollo. I just _can’t_.”

Everything you say is a mantra of ‘it’s going to be o-fucking-kay R’ and ‘you’re going to live, or so you hope so’. “R—“

And if this was really your end, you only had one more thing to get out of your heaving chest— one secret that’s been haunting you for ages now. “R— I‑ I love you.“ It’s barely a whisper, but he hears.

His (striking, electric, and every adjective that means beautiful) blue eyes widen at you. He pulls you closer now, “I— ‘Pollo—“

“Enj— orlas‑ don’t call— ‘Pollo—“

“Enjolras—“

It’s no secret, Grantaire’s affection for you. Everyone has a glimpse of it, one way or another. It’s what led him to the _Les Amis l’ABC_ meeting one day, with a packet of cigarettes and alcohol. Why he comes despite fights and debates— that he found Apollo (you never got why he calls you that anyways). You’ve always assumed that it was merely platonic but today—it simply _isn’t_ , and you reciprocate and it was going to be so fine but— your time’s running out and you’re _dying_ and you _can’t_ be together anymore.

“Me too—“ he admits, he clutches your hand like it’s his lifeline now, “that’s nice— don’t leave me Enjolras—“

He’s crying now, silent tears drip down his tanned face like there’s no tomorrow (you too actually, you don’t know when it started, but you are).

“ _Christ_ R— I’m— done for— can’t— really do—“

“Enjolras?”

It was Combeferre’s voice, who’s suddenly on your right, his first-aid kit in his hands.

“’M— lost cause— ‘Ferre, go help— others,” you manage to mutter out.

“Don’t say that Enjolras!” Combeferre shakes his head no, “You’re going to _live_ , the ambulance is almost here, we need to stem—“

“Believe— me— help others—“

Combeferre is stubborn, you know that. You’ve been friends with him since you were toddlers practically, with Courf by his side constantly. He managed to McGyver you a bandage once when you scraped your knee during summer camp, he salvaged your chemistry project during high school— he never gave up (for once you wish he not be stubborn and just attend to others, he could come last). You know he’s the only medically trained person present (Joly was out with flu), and the people _need_ him.

“Squeeze as hard as you like ‘Jorlas,” R holds your hand. “Bite on this, this is going to hurt s’parently—“

He places something in your mouth, it’s probably a thick wad of cloth. And ‘Ferre starts to try to stem the bleeding. The antiseptic stung, and you know that from experience, and the actual stemming hurt more.

“Anyone— hurt?”

“Enjolras—“ ‘Ferre mutters, “you need to pull through— we _can’t_ lose you!”

“ _Go_.”

“We can’t leave you Enjolras!”

“ _Please_ — ‘Ferre— R—“

This time, Combeferre does comply. R is still on your side. “Don’t you _dare_ die on me ‘Pollo, the ambulance—“

“Won’t arrive—“ you mutter. R’s eyes widen in shock.

“Bullshit!” Blue meets blue, and tears fall faster. “Enjolras?” His voice breaks. He holds you tighter now, cradling you.

You merely glance on your right wrist, he gets the motion and pulls up your right sleeve, “Five minutes— you _knew_ you were going to die Enjolras! Why—“

Silent tears became sobs. A small quiet, _why Enjolras, you knew, why did you still do this—_

“It’s a— honor to die— for _freedom_ —“you cough out, “R? Could— you,” you reach out with the last of your strength— trailing your finger down his jaw. There’s a line of blood left behind, but he doesn’t notice.

“What ‘Jorlas?”

“Kiss me?”

And he does; it’s the first and last you’d ever get from him (and you wish there could’ve been more— but time’s ticking and you’re dying).

That is the last thing you remember. And his face is the last thing you see as the world becomes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentines. please comment and kudos <3


	2. good end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which you survive and get more time_

You wake up in a hospital bed. IV drip on your left, white sterile walls in front of you.

That's weird, you could've sworn— you try to lift your right arm but there's a weight on it—  _oh_.

There's a hand clasped on your own, and someone's there— an unmistakable mass of black curls— it couldn't be Courf— he dyed his hair just a week ago, and that leaves—

"R?"

The said man merely blinks, wordlessly looking at you. His beautiful blue eyes are red-rimmed and puffy (has he been crying?), dark circles under them. You wonder if he slept the night before.

"Jesus Christ Apollo— don't you  _dare_  scare us like that ever again." Grantaire releases your hand, tucking a stray blond hair. "If you're wondering about your clock— well—"

"Well,  _what_? Because I fully expected—"

"Fate gave you more time." He cut in. Looking you in the eye with a fervor you've never seen in him (perhaps it was always there, but you never paid attention—).

It was rare, Countdown Clocks extending, running backward instead of forward— and truly, you don't think it possible but— this was living proof that it just  _could._ You finally could glance on your wrist— and you do— and there's years on it instead of seconds.

"This is Combeferre's doing, isn't it?" You sigh. R nods his head yes.

"He's stubborn. Managed to stop the bleeding," he says with a wistful tone.

"Sounds like him alright."

And it does sound like your friend. He wouldn't leave you to die— even if you tried to make him. And you guess that he'll do that until such time he can't.

There's a lingering silence that follows immediately. R fidgets, eyes darting across the room. You merely stand still, take the time to inspect and pick on the bandages covering your wound (you're right, the bullet-hole's near your liver).

"Apollo?" He asks you, his voice shakes. Enough to be noticed.

"Yes?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

And that gets you thinking. What did happen? Yeah sure there was a protest on who-even-cares-at-this-point (you're surprised you forgot the topic of the fucking protest, but you  _did_ get shot so— you guess it's a semi-valid excuse), and he got shot. And— that was it— at least at the moment.

And of R— R was there, with 'Ferre. And R— he said  _that's nice_  when you said  _I love you_ and he smiled at you and—

You kissed R. And he kissed back.

Everything crashes down at that moment. There's a dazed look in his eyes now, and you can't fucking blame him at this point because you were  _bleeding_ _out_  in his arms a few hours— maybe a few days prior.

"I still love you— nothing's changing that R."

"Apollo—"

"I  _meant_  it R. And call me Enjolras. You shouldn't— shouldn't put  _me_  on a pedestal—"

He opens his mouth— half-ready to protest—

"That's  _not_ a fucking request R."

"Alright Enjolras— fucking bossy— anyways, I should call the others." He rummages through his sling bag— bringing out his phone. Decent phone, he's had that for a few years now, at least according to your memory.

"Stay with me?"

It was barely a whisper. He hears, naturally, the room was small and homey and— there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Until the day I die, Enjolras—"

"Don't worry about me R. 'M not fragile."

"I— I know."

There's another pause in the conversation. Grantaire taps out something on his phone. Groans when it vibrates and plays  _Musetta's. Fucking. Waltz._ (He's a fan of Puccini of all things, you store that information for later use).

"They'll be here in an hour. Maybe two, 'Ferre has classes." He sets down his phone on the bedside drawer, "I imagine you feel like shit right now, huh."

"A bit, yeah. But you're here. Fine by me, Professor Lamarque would understand, don't know about my other professors, though."

"Well, they  _have_ to. Or you can always copy Courf's notes. Or Bahorel's."

"His notes are shit, don't tell him I said that. Bahorel's is pretty decent, I'll give him that." R laughs. You muster up a smile.

"Ah, a bargain?" He says, waggling a finger at your face— "Convince me then Enjolras."

"You suck."

"I love you too."

And for one moment you feel normal again. But there's a hole in your torso and you can't ignore it forever. R looks at the bloodied bandage—

"So you're serious back there?"

You sigh, "Yeah— took me a while to realize beating you verbally wasn't really enough. And it wasn't just frustration as Courf gladly pointed out the other day—"

It was true though— there was a nagging sensation in you whenever you debate with him— maybe it's because most of the time he's frustrated and he's mad and fuming— or maybe because there's this spark between you and him that you brush aside a lot and it's too  _fucking_ late now— but you  _do_ care and you  _do_ want to be with him.

"Jesus Christ, don't take love advice from Courf—"

"Who says I do?"

He stops suddenly. He looks at you reluctantly. Wide blue eyes on your own.

"So you remember everything on that goddamn stage?"

"You're one hell of a kisser, that's for fucking certain."

He smiles. Laughs a bit, scratching the back of his neck, "Ah  _shit_."

"Kiss me?"

R never looked this surprised and elated since forever— when he first walked through the doors of the backroom of the Musain. You know that, you were there.

* * *

 

Truthfully, the last thing Courfeyrac expected when he entered Enjolras’ room was him and R kissing.

But the sight of the two so wrapped up in each other warms his heart— well, they were the last two people he would expect hooking up in any way but it still counts. And Enjolras— for someone who’d been shot and almost died just a few days prior, looks happy.

And oh, Combeferre really does owe him now. He snaps a picture and sends it. He laughs quietly and knocks on the door.

“Hey guys, what did I miss?”

Grantaire just gives him the finger and tells him to get lost.

Ah, young love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah smol bbys. i love them so bad. because jesus christ they deserve this.

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentines. please comment and kudos <3
> 
> (and tell me if you want an alternate ending bc writing this made me cry)


End file.
